False Friends ss-9

by Stephen Leather

  ‘And don’t you forget sometimes? Forget what you said before? That’s my nightmare, that I’ll give myself away by forgetting something.’

  ‘I’m lucky,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got a photographic memory. I pretty much remember everything I see and hear.’

  ‘Eidetic they call it, right?’ said Chaudhry. ‘Kid I went to school had it. But the funny thing was that he wasn’t that great at exams.’

  ‘Same with me,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just because you can remember stuff doesn’t mean you can write great essays. But it’s a big help when you’re undercover.’

  ‘I worry that I’m thinking too much before answering. Especially with Khalid. It’s as if I have to run everything through a filter, checking that I’m saying the right thing. It’s so bloody stressful.’

  Shepherd empathised. It was exactly how he worked when he was undercover. It was vital that he never said anything that wasn’t known by his character, so everything that came out of his mouth had to be analysed and approved. Often he would go into an operation fully briefed on most of the people he would come across, but that didn’t mean his character had access to the same information. He had to be constantly aware of who he’d met and who he hadn’t, and what he had said to them. He understood exactly what Chaudhry meant about it being stressful, because he had to do all that without any sign of hesitation. Hesitation could easily be taken as evasiveness so it was important that conversations flowed. Humour was good, banter back and forth could slow down a conversation and give him time to think, but sometimes jokes weren’t appropriate. Props were good, especially drinks. If a question blindsided him a sip of his whisky would give him time to get his thoughts straight. And as much as he disliked smoking, a cigarette was a perfect way of getting a few seconds of thinking time.

  ‘The trick is to rehearse stories in your head,’ said Shepherd. ‘Get so familiar with them that you can tell them without thinking. That way if you’re in a situation that makes you uncomfortable you can relax and tell the story because in your mind you’ve told it a hundred times before. And it helps if it’s a funny story. If you get people laughing that takes their mind off you. Makes them less suspicious, anyway.’

  ‘Khalid doesn’t have much of a sense of humour,’ said Chaudhry. ‘And he’s not one for anecdotes.’

  ‘Then try asking him questions. Play stupid. Most people think they’re smarter than everyone else and you can play to that. You don’t need to act like a simpleton but asking for help and for information will make him feel superior. You have to be careful that you don’t come over as if you’re pumping him for information. Don’t ask for facts, or for hard information. Tell him you’re feeling anxious and ask him how he deals with that. Ask him how he stays so focused. Give him the opportunity to talk about himself; that’s what people love to do most.’

  Chaudhry laughed. ‘You make it sound like seduction,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly how you go about winning over a woman, right? Make her laugh, ask her about herself.’

  ‘That’s not far off the mark,’ said Shepherd. ‘In a way it is all about seduction. You need them to like you and trust you, so you say and do whatever you have to, to achieve that.’

  ‘And then when they trust you, you fuck them. It’s exactly the same.’ Chaudhry nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, I can do that.’

  ‘You’ve got to be careful, though,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’ve heard of Stockholm Syndrome? Where hostages start to build empathy with their captors?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, it can happen when you’re undercover. You’re putting so much effort into getting them to trust you that there’s a danger of you starting to get drawn into the relationship.’

  ‘I doubt that’s going to happen with Khalid,’ said Chaudhry. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work. He really does hate us, you know.’

  For a moment Shepherd wondered what Chaudhry meant by ‘us’ and then he realised that he was talking about the British.

  ‘What I can’t understand about people like him is that they’re happy enough to live here and take advantage of what this country has to offer, yet they put all this effort into trying to destroy it,’ said Chaudhry. ‘He gets full benefits, you know. He managed to persuade his GP to say that he’s got a bad back so he gets disability payments and everything.’

  ‘Is he really in pain?’

  ‘Is he hell,’ said Chaudhry. ‘But he faked it. They gave him a scan and sent him to a specialist who found nothing, but what can they do? If he says he has constant back pain they have to believe him, so now he gets a couple of hundred quid a week from the state. They pay his rent, he doesn’t pay council tax, and he was saying that he never pays his electricity or water bills because they can’t cut him off since he’s disabled. I tell you, John, this country is going to the dogs.’ He sipped his coffee and sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound off. It’s just that I hate what’s happening to England. And it’s people like Khalid that are trying to ruin it for everyone else. He wants sharia law here. He wants women to cover themselves. He wants us to become a Muslim country. I just don’t get it. If he’s that unhappy with things here why doesn’t he just go and live in Pakistan, or Saudi Arabia?’ He smiled at Shepherd. ‘Have you ever been to Pakistan?’

  Shepherd shook his head.

  ‘It’s a cesspit, mainly,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Don’t get me wrong, the people are great and I’ve got family out there, but it’s corrupt, it’s dangerous, and the rich hold the power of life and death over the poor. If you’re rich or connected to the army you can get away with murder, literally. It’s a country where the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer. That’s why practically everyone in Pakistan wants to come and live in England. I don’t understand why anyone would prefer that way of life to the way we live here.’ He shrugged. ‘Rant over,’ he said.

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘Better you let off steam with me rather than let Khalid know how you feel.’ He looked at his watch.

  ‘Have you got to go?’ asked Chaudhry.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can stay as long as you want. That’s what I’m here for, Raj. To help you in any way I can.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Is your name really John?’ asked Chaudhry, his voice a low whisper as if he was afraid to ask the question.

  Shepherd smiled as he stared at Chaudhry, but his mind was racing. Protocol was to stick with his MI5 alias under any circumstances, and to never, ever, admit that he was anyone other than John Whitehill. But the fact that Chaudhry had asked the question meant that he already suspected that Whitehill was an alias, and if he believed that and Shepherd still lied then it would destroy any trust they had. ‘No,’ said Shepherd. ‘It isn’t.’

  Chaudhry closed his eyes and sighed. ‘I knew it,’ he said. He opened his eyes again. ‘But I appreciate your honesty. You could have lied but you didn’t. I respect that.’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Raj,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s the way that MI5 works. It has to be that way. If you don’t know my real name then you can’t let it slip out by mistake. Also, it protects me. The John Whitehill name is specific to this operation so if it gets used by anyone we know where they picked it up.’

  Chaudhry frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Suppose we hear the name Whitehill mentioned on a phone tap out in Pakistan. That’s an immediate red flag for us and we’d know that we have a problem in London. But if my real name was being used it might have come up in a dozen operations, so we wouldn’t know where the problem was.’

  ‘I guess that makes sense.’

  ‘And suppose you knew my real name as well as my cover name, it would just add to the pressure you’re under. Yet another lie you have to tell.’ He leaned towards Chaudhry. ‘If you want I’ll tell you my real name,’ he said. ‘You’ve earned the right to know who I am. But it’s in your best interests not to know. And if you ever need to
contact MI5, the John Whitehill name is the key to instant access to me or, if I’m not available, to another case officer who will be apprised of your situation immediately. If you were to call up and ask for me by my real name they’d deny all knowledge of me.’

  ‘So you’re under as much pressure as we are, aren’t you?’ said Chaudhry. ‘We have to lie to everyone around us and you have to pretend to be someone you’re not.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing, not really,’ said Shepherd. ‘Look, Raj, many’s the time I’ve sat opposite a handler just like you’re sitting opposite me.’

  ‘Is that what you are?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘My handler?’

  ‘That’s the jargon,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It makes me sound like an animal.’

  Shepherd smiled. ‘It’s not meant that way,’ he said. ‘It’s more a question of “handle with care”. But the point I’m making is that I’m usually the one being handled. And I know how difficult it is to be undercover. I know how lonely it can be. I know how you feel isolated and vulnerable. And I know that I’m your lifeline.’ Chaudhry lowered his eyes and stared at the table. ‘Raj, look at me,’ said Shepherd. Chaudhry did as he was told. ‘I understand exactly what you’re going through and I’ll do whatever I can to make it easier for you. I’ll be watching your back every step of the way. And I promise you that I won’t lie to you, okay?’

  Chaudhry nodded slowly. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  Shepherd caught a black cab back to Hampstead. As he was letting himself into the flat one of the three mobiles he was carrying began to ring. He took it out. It was his Nokia, the Garry Edwards phone. The caller was withholding his number but he took the call anyway. There were only two people who had the number: Ray Fenby and Simon Kettering.

  ‘Garry, how the hell are you?’ It was Kettering.

  ‘All good,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Got someone who’d like a chinwag with you, if you’re up for it,’ said Kettering. ‘Friend of mine from Germany is interested in the same sort of kit you’re getting for me.’

  ‘Sweet,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Big numbers too. Figured you and he ought to get together.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Let’s do it down your way,’ said Kettering. ‘Just wanted to check that you were interested. I’ll fix up a time. Tomorrow good for you?’

  ‘Sunday? You not going to church?’

  ‘Ha bloody ha,’ said Kettering. ‘Are you around or not?’

  ‘I’ll clear my diary,’ said Shepherd.

  He ended the call and sat down on the sofa, tapping the mobile against the side of his head, his forehead creased into a frown. A European connection was exactly what Button had been hoping for. The last thing that Shepherd had expected was to have it handed to him on a plate.

  Kamran Khalid never felt at home in London, but he never felt as if he was out of place either. He wore a long grey shirt over light-green baggy pants and had a white skullcap on his head, and the man he was with wore similar clothing, but in the English capital in the third millennium there was nothing at all unusual about the way he was dressed. Nor was there anything unusual about his ethnicity — as they walked across the bridge from Stratford town centre the majority of people around him had Asian or Arabic heritage and in the space of five minutes he had heard half a dozen languages spoken, none of them English. London had become one of the most ethnically mixed cities on the planet, which is why it was the perfect place for a terrorist to hide. The police weren’t permitted to stop and question anybody solely on the basis of their appearance, not even to ask if the person had the necessary permission to be in the country. Khalid did have the correct paperwork. Better than that, he had a British passport. And the man who was with him, an Arab, had a Dubai passport and the correct visa to allow him entry into the United Kingdom. The passport was a fake, but it was a good one. The visa was real, though, obtained by the simple means of paying a thousand-dollar bribe to a corrupt HKBA official.

  They were heading towards Westfield shopping mall in East London, close to the site of the 2012 Olympics. With three hundred shops, seventy restaurants and almost two million square feet of retail space, it was the largest urban shopping mall in Europe.

  The two men spoke in Arabic, but they kept their voices low and whenever anyone of Arabic appearance was near they kept silent. Both men had spent three hours carrying out anti-surveillance procedures before meeting, including switching cabs and using the public transport system, and they were confident that they were not being followed.

  ‘It is busy, brother,’ said the Arab. His real name was Abu al Khayr, which means ‘one who does good’. From the standpoint of the men and women plotting terrorist atrocities in the West his name was appropriate because he was an al-Qaeda paymaster. He travelled the world and funnelled the organisation’s money to where it would do the most harm. He appeared on FBI, CIA and MI5 databases under several names but he had never been fingerprinted and none of the security services knew his true role within al-Qaeda.

  ‘It’s always busy,’ said Khalid. ‘Busiest at weekends but even on a quiet day there will be tens of thousands of people here.’ They took the escalators to the top floor and bought coffees at Pret A Manger, then sat at a table by the window so they could watch the crowds pass by.

  ‘So tell me about security,’ said Abu al Khayr.

  Khalid chuckled softly. He nodded towards an obese woman with badly permed hair who was standing next to a gangly Asian by the escalators. Both wore black suits and had identification cards strapped to their forearms in clear plastic holders. They were deep in conversation. ‘That is your security,’ he said. ‘They are usually in pairs and are more involved with giving directions than they are with monitoring what is happening. There are other security guards wearing peaked hats but they are not armed and they do not appear to be well trained. They have radios but that is all.’

  As they watched the pair, a woman in a full burka with two toddlers stopped to ask the Asian a question. The Asian pointed down towards Marks amp; Spencer.

  ‘There are a lot of sisters here,’ said Abu al Khayr.

  ‘This is London. There are sisters wherever you go,’ said Khalid. ‘It cannot be helped. One in five Londoners is now a Muslim. We can instruct our brothers to be careful but even so there are certain to be Muslim casualties.’

  Abu al Khayr nodded. ‘Martyrs,’ he said. ‘There will be a place in Heaven for them.’ He looked up at a small black plastic dome in the ceiling, a few inches across. ‘There is CCTV everywhere,’ he said, a statement and not a question.

  ‘Every square foot is covered by CCTV cameras, every walkway, every shop, every restaurant, every entrance and exit. There is nowhere that is not covered. But that is their problem — there are too many to be monitored in real time. Once they are aware of an incident they can look at it, and they have all footage stored on hard drives, but in terms of monitoring real-time security they are virtually useless. By the time they realise what is going on, it will be too late. And at that point the more footage they get the better. Every time the world sees the video of the planes smashing into the World Trade Center it reminds them of our victory. So we want the world to see what happens here.’

  They sat in silence as they drank their coffee, both deep in thought.

  ‘So tell me what you think we should do,’ said Abu al Khayr eventually.

  Khalid finished his coffee. ‘Let me show you,’ he said.

  The two men left Pret A Manger and went down one level. ‘This is the first floor,’ said Khalid. ‘On this level there are only two ways out, and one is through the Marks amp; Spencer store. From there they can get outside, so we will need a brother there to stop people leaving. But it is also our way out.’ He pointed down the mall towards the John Lewis store. ‘To the right of John Lewis there is a single door leading to car park A. That gives us direct access to the mall.’ He pointed up to the second flo
or. ‘There is no escape from upstairs. There are restaurants, the bowling alley and the cinema. But the top two floors are always less busy than the ground floor and the lower ground, so it is there we will strike first.’

  They took the escalators down to the ground floor. Khalid took Abu al Khayr through the crowds to a set of glass doors that led to the bridge leading across the railway lines to Stratford Regional Station and the town centre. It was the way they had come into the mall. ‘This is the exit to the station,’ he said. ‘There are five doors, a single at each side and three double doors between them. Do you see the handles?’

  Each door had a long vertical chrome pole as a handle. Abu al Khayr nodded.

  ‘All we need is a chain and a padlock,’ said Khalid. ‘It will take a matter of seconds and all of the doors will be locked shut. Once done no one can get out, and no one can get in.’

  ‘The glass is reinforced?’

  ‘It is. It will resist a sledgehammer.’

  ‘And how many exits are there in total?’

  ‘On the ground floor there are six. All have the same type of doors and all can be chained shut within seconds.’

  There was a constant stream of shoppers entering and leaving the mall. ‘Won’t people try to stop them locking the doors?’ asked Abu al Khayr.

  ‘This entrance is the busiest,’ said Khalid. ‘We will have a brother wearing a security uniform.’ He grinned. ‘We already have two brothers on the security staff and hope to have more within the next few days. The owners are very keen to demonstrate their commitment to diversity.’

  ‘They make it so easy,’ said Abu al Khayr.

  ‘Always,’ said Khalid. ‘They see it as a strength but it is their biggest weakness. And one that we shall take full advantage of.’

  They began walking through the mall. It was packed with shoppers and they were constantly being bumped into or having to step aside to avoid strollers and wheelchairs.

  ‘How many people are here?’ asked Abu al Khayr.